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  Ollie awoke the next day wondering if the previous night had been a dream. He was sore and stiff and still lying on a hard cot in a cold room, so he knew that part had been real. He traces his face gingerly assessing the damage. Bumps and bruises and cuts, but nothing was broken. He thought back to the messages. Had those been real too? He doubted it. Lydia would have told him it was his subconscious attempting to comfort him in a time of crisis. As he was deciding she was probably right, he saw the word listen in his head. Or maybe he heard it. He decided he would keep an open mind.

  He sat up on the cot, but his body ached and groaned—much more than usual. He’d been pummeled in the ribs and stomach in addition to his face and neck. He inhaled deeply. He was sore, but relieved to find there were no broken ribs. He’d be in pain for several days, but he’d be just fine. Well, except for the fact that he was locked away in a room in an unknown building at an unknown location with unknown people.

  Listen, he heard again. He thought perhaps his visual hallucinations had turned to auditory, but shrugged it off, painfully, of course.

  I’m listening, he thought, but he heard nothing. Ollie walked around the room to search for an escape. He knew he’d find none. He was pretty sure the people holding him knew what they were doing. If he was right, this was a secret government agency geared toward human weaponry. He knew one of Lydia’s patients was a likely candidate for involuntary induction into this weaponry program, and he knew both Lydia and the patient were in danger. From what he had gathered from previous conversations with Lydia and the research he’d been compiling for years, the patient was a teenaged girl who would be transferred to a training facility to learn an experimental form of weaponry. These people meant business, so he was sure they wouldn’t accidentally leave a door unlocked. He continued to search anyway.

  Ask for Jess, a disembodied voice whispered.

  What? He thought.

  Ask to see Jess, Ollie heard again.

  Ollie, having searched the entirety of the room and having found nothing, returned to his cot and sat down.

  Say it.

  Ollie scanned the room. Were his captors doing this? Tormenting him?

  Say it.

  Ollie, always trusting the unknown, said it. He turned his head toward the locked door of his small room and in a firm, demanding voice, said, “I want to see Jess.”

  He held his breath. Nothing happened. “I want to see Jess,” he ordered again. Still nothing. Ollie laughed at himself. Even now, in this dire situation, he was relying too heavily on his imagination and not enough on his common sense. “Idiot,” he muttered, finally accepting that maybe, just maybe, he went overboard sometimes.

  Wait.

  Ollie shook his head in an attempt to ignore the voice.

  In another room of the building, which just so happened to be the Breemont Facility, Kay Crider and her cohorts were planning their next move. Video surveillance showed that Oliver Ragsdale was awake. Not only was he awake, but he was demanding to see their secret weapon.

  “He knows more than we thought. We need to find out what he knows, who else knows it, and kill him.” Kay said bending to place her palms on the table before her.

  The ice cream vendor, better known as Miguel, snapped back, “He’s not talking. If he didn’t ‘fess up when I was putting the muscle on him yesterday, he’s not ever going to. We need to kill him now. We can safely guess that the doctor knows what Ragsdale knows. She’ll need to go too.” Miguel traced a finger across his neck. “We’ll take her out and grab the girl.”

  Kay weighed out the choices. At this point, Lydia had shown no signs that she knew what was happening, and she was still treating the patient accordingly. If Lydia didn’t know anything, she didn’t want to ruin a good thing.

  “No, Miguel. First,” an evil grin grew across her face, “we show him.”

  “What? Kay, you can’t be serious.” Miguel said in disbelief.

  “Miguel, if we show him what he’s dealing with, he might speak up. We’ll put a…positive…spin on it. We’ll show him the ones who have…acclimated…to their new lifestyles.” She crossed the room to face him.

  “Kay, I just don’t think it’s a good…”

  She cut him off, “I don’t pay you to think, do I?” She grabbed his chin and he winced in pain. She pushed him back against the wall and slammed his head into it. “Well, do I?” She demanded.

  Her fingers were digging into his jaw forcing his mouth partially open. Finally, he said no through her grasp.

  “Good boy,” she answered, and without loosening her grip, pressed her lips to his.

  Ollie stared at the door wondering if his last hours on earth would be spent on this cot. The door opened, and through it marched Miguel.

  “Get up.” He ordered.

  Go, he heard.

  Ollie did as he was instructed and stood. Miguel took him by the arm and led him out of the room. Ollie did not attempt to escape. He was too exhausted from the previous day’s beating to ask for another.

  “Where are we going?” Ollie finally asked.

  “I’m giving you what you asked for,” came a hateful reply.

  Ollie submitted to the fact that his life would be ending sooner than expected. He wondered why Miguel hadn’t just ended it all right there in that room. What kind of horrendous torture lay ahead? Was there a killing room? Were they going to a secluded location? Ollie didn’t want to think about it. He just gulped and surrendered his fate to the hands of the man who was leading him down the hall. He felt he had done right by Lydia, not disclosing any information. He thought maybe, just maybe her level headedness and refusal to believe the unbelievable would save her. He hoped the girl would be okay too. He kept his eyes open for possible escapes, but the firm grip on his elbow told him he wouldn’t find one. Guilt washed over him in torrents as he wished he could do more to help both Lydia and the girl.

  After maneuvering a maze of halls and tunnels and elevators, Miguel led Ollie into an observation room. The room itself was dark. There was a table set in front of a thick-paned window that took up most of one wall. Ollie guessed it was a one-way mirror. Through the glass, he possessed an elevated view a white room so brightly lit it almost hurt his eyes to look at. He estimated it was the size of a gymnasium. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to look down and see that inside this huge room were several stations. One was a table with a partition, another resembled a high tech treadmill, and yet another was a tank of water. There were other stations as well, but Ollie was too confused to take it all in. On the walls surrounding Ollie were television screens which he realized were close ups of each station. He saw an additional area set up for scaling a wall, one with a flame shooting out of an opening in the table, and one with a dog sleeping comfortably in a crate before his attention was turned elsewhere.

  Through a door in the gymnasium, a young man of roughly eighteen years entered with a much older man in a lab coat. The young man who didn’t seem to object to being there also wore white—something reminiscent of a karategi, Ollie thought.

  The black-haired boy approached the first of the stations. It was a table with miscellaneous items scattered upon it: a key, a pen, a tennis ball, a book, and several others. Miguel punched a button on the wall which switched on the intercom and sat down next to Ollie. Ollie didn’t speak; he only watched.

  In the room, the doctor, who Ollie now saw was carrying a clipboard, told the boy to sit. The doctor sat opposite him. Through the speaker, Ollie heard what was taking place below.

  “Arrange these items according to size,” the doctor instructed.

  The boy did.

  “Now by weight.”

  Again, the black-haired boy did what was asked, lining each item up according to its weight.

  “Shape.”

  The boy organized the items, grouping them by size.

  “Use.”

  Again, the boy did as instructed.

  “Not very impressive, is it,” Miguel chuckled.
/>   Ollie said nothing. He figured it was a test of mental agility and problem solving skills. The boy was quick, Ollie would give him that, but Miguel was right, it wasn’t very impressive.

  It gets better, he heard. The voice seemed louder now. Had it come from the intercom? No, it was the same voice as before. It was definitely in his head.

  Look, Mom, no hands, he heard the voice laugh.

  Ollie ignored the voice and continued to observe. What happened next shocked and awed its observer. Ollie couldn’t believe his eyes. The doctor clicked his pen and said, “By size again,” he looked over the top of his black-framed spectacles, “without contact.”

  The boy nodded. To Ollie’s surprise and sheer disbelief, the boy manipulated each object, one by one, lining them up by size. This time, he did so with no hands. He smiled and when he did, the objects lifted from the table. First the smallest—a red marble—hovered, then the key, a wooden block with the letter A, a tennis ball, and so on until they were all suspended in a vertical line. It was as if they were a strand of pearls he was picking up and holding in front of himself and the doctor...except there was no strand, and he was not picking them up. Not with his hands anyway.

  Ollie’s heart raced. The thought of imminent death faded and was semi-blocked by the wild new theories that were forming in Ollie’s racing mind. He knew he wouldn’t have time to explore them—he’d be long dead, but the prospect was exciting none the less.

  “Good. Put them back on the table.” The doctor said as he wrote on his clipboard. Ollie sat forward. Instead of lowering the items, Ollie laughed aloud as he watched the table rise to meet the objects. When all the objects had returned to the table, he lowered them all together until the table was once again resting on the floor.

  “Show off,” the doctor accused in a jovial tone. The boy seemed to enjoy what he was doing. “Next,” he said and pointed to station two, where another table sat. It was the table with the partition. The boy sat on one side and the doctor on the other. On the doctor’s side lay a stack of oversized white cards. The doctor held the first card up. On a screen in the observation deck, Ollie was able to see that it was a plain white card with a sun pictured on it. The doctor was holding the card up to a camera rigged into the partition.

  “Sun.”

  The next card revealed three horizontal curving lines.

  “Waves.”

  The boy was obviously bored. The doctor held up a third card.

  “Triangle,” he paused, then continued in a monotone voice, “X, star, circle, cat, rectangle, moon, R, yellow, oval, three, red.”

  The doctor held up the next eleven cards one by one to the camera. The boy had known them all.

  “Next.”

  They moved to station three. It was the treadmill contraption. The doctor strapped on a mask that would record his oxygenation levels. The mask attached a long vacuum cleaner-like hose to a computer in front of him. The doctor programed the treadmill. The boy ran, then ran faster, then faster still. Despite speeds so fast that his legs were almost a blur, he looked as if he was hardly working. He hadn’t broken a sweat, and didn’t seem to be out of breath. The screen Miguel tapped on confirmed this. He watched the treadmill screen go from 10 mph to 20 mph to a whopping 25 mph. This kid was breezing past Usain Bolt’s record with ease. 25 mph, 30 mph, 35 mph, 40 mph.

  “Look at him go!” Miguel exclaimed. “You know, we had to have a treadmill specially made for these kids.”

  These kids? Ollie thought.

  We don’t know how fast he can really go. The treadmill’s limit is 40 mph. We know that’s no problem for him. And look at that VO2Max! The highest ever recorded was Oskar Svensen in 2012. He’s a Norwegian cyclist whose VO2Max was 97.5. Look at this kid. 100% on the dot. At 40 mph. I’d tell you it was impossible if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.

  Another teen entered through the same door. This time it was a blonde girl, roughly the same age as the boy and in the same attire.

  “Four,” called the doctor. She obeyed. Station four resembled an oversized fish tank. Next to it was a ladder. She climbed step by step and sat upon the platform at the top dangling her feet in the water. Momentarily, she slid with grace and delicacy into the tank. Her blonde hair floated about her pretty face and bubbles escaped her nose. To the right, a timer began with large, red numbers. The top was sealed and the numbers on the timer climbed. Thirty seconds, a minute, a minute and a half. No trace of panic ever crossed her face as she floated dreamily encased in glass and water. Ollie watched in amazement as she arched backward into an artful flip at the three minute mark.

  “You may want to watch the other kid. This will get old after ten or fifteen minutes.”

  Ollie contained his intrigue as best he could and nodded once. He turned his attention back to the black haired boy who approached the tank. He stood before the girl making eye contact.

  “Now,” the doctor ordered.

  The boy smiled at the pretty blonde. She rolled her eyes back at him. The boy put his hands on the glass, but nothing happened. At first. The glass began to fog. Behind it, the girl began to pale. Eventually, Ollie could tell the water in the tank was freezing. By the time the timer showed five minutes, the girl was encapsulated in a solid block of ice. Until the doctor pointed to her.

  Somehow, she was able to close her eyes. She concentrated hard and Ollie observed that the ice began to melt. Color came back into her face, and as impossible as it seemed, the girl stepped right through the glass and onto the towel the doctor had placed by the tank, which was still intact and still full of water.

  “That one gets me every time! She just steps right out of the damn thing!” Miguel laughed and slapped Ollie on the back. Ollie flinched. “Oh, don’t worry, amigo, I think I roughed you up good enough yesterday, didn’t I?”

  The doctor looked up at the mirror that Ollie and Miguel were hidden behind. Miguel pushed a button on the intercom and said, “One more. Show ‘em the dog.”

  All three went directly to station nine where the dog lay, still sleeping, in the crate.

  “Chuck, come.” The boy said.

  “Chuck is such a stupid name for a dog. They should have let me name him, shouldn’t they have? Huh, boy?” the girl scratched Chuck’s ears and patted his head. “Sorry they let Owen put such a stupid name on you, boy.”

  “Shut up, Diane. Chuck is an awesome name. Much better than Diane,” he snickered. She rolled her eyes at him for the second time.

  Ollie thought the dog looked healthy and happy enough. He liked animals, so he was relieved to know Chuck wasn’t being mistreated. Chuck even seemed to be loving the attention he was getting.

  “Begin.” The doctor said.

  Owen retrieved the tennis ball—the one that was across the room—using nothing but his mind. He held up his hand, and the ball was almost instantly there. He tossed the ball and said, “Fetch!”

  “Up, Chuck!”

  Chuck jumped high enough to get a treat out of Owen’s raised hand.

  “Now, UPCHUCK!” Owen said, laughing at some hilarious private joke.

  The dog began wheezing and wretching. There was about to be dog vomit all over the floor at Diane’s feet.

  Owen was still laughing. “That’s why I named him Chuck. It’s the little things in life! Chuck, stop!” The dog stopped heaving.

  “Attack!” Diane instructed, pointing toward Owen.

  Chuck lunged for Owen who blocked him with his arms. The dog had bitten off a meaty chunk of Owen’s tricep before Owen could yell, “Stop, Chuck. Down, boy!”

  The dog obeyed again and Owen held his injured arm in the opposite hand. “Dammit, Diane, I wasn’t ready!”

  “You always have to be ready, Owen. Haven’t you learned anything?”

  Owen grimaced and pulled his hand away from the gaping wound which was already starting to close.

  “Let me see it, you big baby.” Diane pulled the rest Owen’s ripped sleeve away to expose the entire arm to the shoulder. Sh
e wiped some blood away with the scraps of Owen’s shirt and watched the pit shrink into a slash, and then a gash, and then a scratch before completely disappearing. “There, good as new.”

  “I’ll never get used to that. The healing thing. It still freaks me out every time.”

  “You will. Maybe we should just let Chuck use you as a chew toy until you can handle it, you pansy!” She laughed and turned away from Owen.

  “You see that, Oliver? Not only can they control that damn dog, but they can regenerate new tissue too. I coulda used that a time or two.” He rubbed a scar on his temple.

  “I still want to see Jess,” Ollie demanded.

  “You just did.” Miguel squinted.

  “Their names were Owen and Diane. Where’s Jess?”

  “They are GES. GES, G-E-S. Genetically Engineered Soldiers. That was only two of them. We’ve got a whole wing of them here at Breemont. But you already know that. You’re the one who asked for them by name. No one says GES unless they know what GES is.”

  “Right.” Ollie said trying to sound sure of himself. He’d had no idea who, or what, rather, GES was until Miguel had shown him. He hoped he was doing a good job of hiding his surprise. Until an hour ago, Ollie knew soldiers were being trained to operate a new weapon. He’d had no idea the soldiers were the weapons.

  Below, Owen, Diane, and the doctor left the room. Ollie tried to play it cool.

  “How do you know about all this. And who else knows?”

  Ollie held onto his silence. It was the only thing he had left.

  “Listen, Oliver. The only reason you are still alive is because Kay wants to know if anyone else knows. If you hadn’t asked to see GES, you wouldn’t even be breathing right now. She thought if you saw GES, you might talk.”

  Miguel sipped the coffee he had brought in with him. He grimaced when he swallowed the cold, stale liquid and then crumpled the empty cup. He leaned closer to Ollie who was still holding his tongue.

  “Who else knows?” he boomed directly in Ollie’s face.